


turn the lights on

by fairkidforever



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Crowley has a nightmare, Crowley uses his words, Declarations Of Love, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, No Betas We Fall Like Crowley, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), bad driving decisions, guys please don't drive like Crowley, snuggles in bed, the author is Processing the forbidden screenplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:54:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22295137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairkidforever/pseuds/fairkidforever
Summary: "Crowley hardly ever had bad dreams anymore about the seven seals being opened, or the great star named Wormwood falling to earth leaving poison in its wake, or any of that nonsense. These days, the worst nightmare he had was that he was back in the bandstand arguing with Aziraphale only to realize that his teeth were falling out and he was late for the final exam for a class he hadn’t realized he was enrolled in and hadn’t figured out how he was going to cheat yet. It had something to do with time healing all wounds, it had quite a bit to do with therapy, it had more to do with the life he and Aziraphale had built together in the interim, and it had rather a lot to do with the fact that now when he went to sleep at night, most of the time, he had his own personal guardian angel reading Austen by the light of a bedside sconce lamp by his side and the South Downs surf in his ears.Tonight was different, though."Crowley has a Very Bad Dream. (You know the one.) Lucky for him, Aziraphale is happy to help him work through it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), background Anathema/Newt (sorry)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 92





	turn the lights on

**Author's Note:**

> title is from "Sweet Dreams" by Beyonce
> 
> based on [this Tumblr post](https://lovesickcrowley.tumblr.com/post/190240075661/no-i-will-not-read-the-1992-screenplay-script)
> 
> Mostly miniseries-verse, with little bits of bookverse mishmashed in. I haven't actually read the screenplay, but I have feelings about it nonetheless. (This can be read without any knowledge of the forbidden script, though.)

Crowley usually didn’t remember his nightmares.

He’d had them, of course, but generally speaking, they were atmospheric and hazy, the horror they induced driven more by mood than plot. They were hard to translate into language, so by the time he’d fully re-entered the world of the waking, most of the bad feeling of the bad dream dissipated into the ether along with the content. Most of the time, he found that even when he wanted to talk about what he remembered, it was impossible to put into words.

(Aziraphale’s nightmares, on the rare occasions that he slept, were more precise, more elaborate, more intricate – _nicer_ , in the Agnes Nutter sense of the word. He was a creature of language. His mind was so deeply steeped in words, even when dreaming, that he could have articulated every particular in perfect detail when he woke, and for days afterwards, if he had wanted to. He had never wanted to. After the third or fourth one, Crowley gave up asking. After the fifth or sixth one, Aziraphale gave up sleeping.)

Still, though, that had been a long time ago. Crowley hardly ever had bad dreams anymore about the seven seals being opened, or the great star named Wormwood falling to earth leaving poison in its wake, or any of that nonsense. These days, the worst nightmare he had was that he was back in the bandstand arguing with Aziraphale only to realize that his teeth were falling out and he was late for the final exam for a class he hadn’t realized he was enrolled in and hadn’t figured out how he was going to cheat yet. It had something to do with time healing all wounds, it had quite a bit to do with therapy, it had more to do with the life he and Aziraphale had built together in the interim, and it had rather a lot to do with the fact that now when he went to sleep at night, most of the time, he had his own personal guardian angel reading Austen by the light of a bedside sconce lamp by his side and the South Downs surf in his ears.

Tonight was different, though.

It was a nightmare he’d had before, once long before they had even known the Apocalypse had been scheduled, and once again when they’d been working for the Dowlings. Both times it had left him deeply shaken, but it hadn’t been nearly so bad when it had felt more hypothetical. This time, it had been intense and vivid, and it went on _forever_. A bird sharpening its beak every thousand years on a granite mountain to the tune of ‘How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria’ had _nothing_ on this.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. There was a terrible tightness in his chest and he felt flushed and clammy all over, but at least he was back in their bedroom of their cottage instead of in a dingy nightclub in London. Crowley gulped down air, feeling like he had just flown a mile. His throat was hoarse, and he realized he must have been shouting in his sleep. (Having a corporation, for all its charms, had some major downsides as far as Crowley was concerned: having nightmares at all in the first place were chief among them.)

It took a second for him to realize that the warmth on his shivery, cold skin was from the angel holding him close, and that said angel was currently murmuring reassurances into the crown of his head. Usually this was immensely comforting when Crowley had a bad nightmare.

Tonight was different, though. He still felt so wretched from the dream that Aziraphale’s ministrations were actually making him feel worse. It was too much like the nightmare to be any consolation. The dark bedroom somehow felt less substantial than the dream had been. He felt as though he was swimming in both worlds.

Crowley realized dimly that Aziraphale was saying something to him. “-had never seen you thrash about like that, my dear, I’ll admit you had me quite worried. I thought I had better wake you. Are you all right? Would you care for a glass of water? Or perhaps a cup of tea? Or-”

“Aziraphale?” Crowley said quietly. Aziraphale fell quiet immediately. “You know I care about you, right?”

“What?” Aziraphale asked, puzzled. “Beg pardon?”

“You know I that I adore you? Have done for millennia? Would do anything for you?” Crowley asked. “You know that, right?” Despite having been desperately short of breath a few moments ago, he now found himself holding his breath waiting for the answer. “Even when I don’t come right out and say it very much?”

“Well, of course, my dearest,” Aziraphale said. He rolled over to get a better look at Crowley, concern creasing his brow. “I should hope so. We’ve been married for years.”

“Oh, thank Someone,” Crowley said, turning over to bury his face in Aziraphale’s chest and wrapping his thin arms around Aziraphale’s middle. (Someday, Aziraphale would have to tease Crowley about his histrionics, but that day was not today.)

“Do you want to talk about it?” Aziraphale asked the back of Crowley’s head.

“Not right now,” came the muffled reply.

“Very well, dear,” Aziraphale said. He shifted his weight so that he could properly wrap Crowley up in his arms. “Please don't fret, everything's quite all right.”

“Thanksss for waking me up,” Crowley said after a few quiet moments.

Aziraphale leaned down to kiss Crowley’s hairline. “Of course.”

* * *

By the time morning arrived, Crowley seemed more collected, although not quite like his usual self. It started with breakfast. Crowley was usually a late riser, but before Aziraphale had finished with his morning routine, Crowley was out of bed and had started in on a rather ambitious breakfast scheme. Perhaps a little too ambitious: by the time Aziraphale made it out to the kitchen, there were already six eggs on the stove in various states of overdoneness, bacon that looked like it was on the edge of erupting into a grease fire, and waffles gently smoking in the waffle iron while Crowley wrestled every last drop of juice out of an orange that looked pretty well wrung-out to begin with.

“What’s all this, then?” Aziraphale asked.

“Oh,” Crowley said. “You’re up. I thought I’d make you breakfast in bed. You can go lie down if you like. Or we can eat here. Whatever. S’all good by me.” He moved on to another orange with an energy Aziraphale could only categorize as manic.

Aziraphale discreetly turned down the heat on the bacon and took the eggs off the burner. “That’s very kind of you, dear,” he said. “Perhaps I could lend a hand? Make some coffee for you, at least?”

Crowley looked up from the orange he was currently mangling. “No!” he said, with perhaps a _bit_ more alarm than the situation warranted. (At least, now that the stove was off and Aziraphale had convinced the waffle iron to behave with a stern look.) “No, don’t trouble yourself, sweetheart, I want to do something for you. You know. Something n-” he stopped short.

“Yes?” Aziraphale prompted. Crowley didn’t continue, but his eyebrows did something expressive.

“Something _nice,_ maybe?” Aziraphale suggested with a grin. Crowley glared at him. “Hmm. I thought as much.”

“No!” Crowley said, as if he was about to elaborate on why it wasn’t actually very nice at all, but as he said it, he seemed to realize that no counterargument was forthcoming.

“Interesting,” Aziraphale said, after letting him flounder for a moment or two longer than was strictly necessary. “Well then. I really can’t lend a hand?”

“No,” Crowley said firmly. “Go relax, angel, I’ll call you when breakfast is ready.”

Aziraphale went off and busied himself with a book for what ultimately was a much shorter span of time than it had any right to be. He suspected that Crowley had cheated and used a couple of miracles to finish up quicker, but it was the thought that counted. They had a lovely meal together, and if Crowley seemed a little on edge, Aziraphale didn’t think it would help anything to mention it.

But when Crowley insisted on doing the dishes, the human way, by hand, Aziraphale decided that enough was enough.

“I know you didn’t want to discuss it earlier,” Aziraphale said, “and I don’t wish to pry, but my dear, I can’t help but wonder if this has something to do with your nightmare.”

“Does there have to be a reason for me to make you breakfast?” Crowley asked, his gaze studiously trained on the plate he was drying. “Can’t it just be, you know, because I like you?”

This was difficult to argue with. “Well,” Aziraphale said, “when you put it that way.”

“Close your eyes for a tick,” Crowley said. Aziraphale did so. “All right, you can open them.”

There was slice of sweet bread from their favorite bakery in Devil’s Dyke sitting on the plate Crowley had just dried off.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said reproachfully, “that is stolen.”

“No, it’s not,” Crowley said, handing him the plate. “It’s pronounced _stollen_.” Aziraphale glared. As if he didn't know how to pronounce stollen. The nerve! “And anyway, I left some money for it.”

“Oh, stop,” Aziraphale said. He set the plate down on the counter and pulled Crowley close, damp, soapy dishtowel and all. (The resulting embrace was a bit sudsy for either of their tastes, but, all things considered, it was worth it.)

* * *

Crowley still didn’t want to talk about the nightmare for the next three days, but he did prove to be remarkably forthcoming on a number of other subjects on which he was usually rather reticent. In fact, he was unusually accommodating on several fronts. For example, he generally didn’t like being dragged along to Aziraphale’s rare-book auctions, but that Thursday, he canceled his plans to spend the morning trolling climate change denial forums online and packed them both a lunch for the trip.

“Crowley, dear, why don’t you let me carry that?” Aziraphale asked as he watched Crowley struggle with a box of books that likely outweighed him as they left the auction. “Really, I’d be more comfortable dealing with them myself.” Aziraphale, by virtue of his angelic rank and nature, was typically better suited to heavy lifting than Crowley, but the demon had insisted.

“Oh, it’s no trouble, angel, we’re practically already to the car,” Crowley said.

They were not practically to the car, they were barely out of the building. “It’s just that it looks like it’s a bit unwieldy for you.”

“Not a bit,” Crowley said cheerfully, albeit slightly out of breath. “Got it well in hand.”

At this point, he was staggering so tremendously that Aziraphale was beginning to suspect Crowley was using a miracle or two to keep himself balanced. “Why don’t you set it down and go bring the Bentley around?” Aziraphale asked. “No reason to lug them all the way over there.”

“Set your first editions down _on the ground_?” Crowley asked. “Have you lost your mind? No way, angel. We’re practically there anyway. Now, can you help me find my keys? I know they’re in one of these pockets, but I don’t remember which one-” Crowley tried to balance the box of books on his hip to free up a hand to dig around in his jacket, and lost his balance entirely. Aziraphale just barely managed to catch him before he took a nasty spill.

“Your books,” Crowley said, dismayed at the sight of the cardboard box split at the corner, and the several volumes that had wound up on the pavement.

Aziraphale gently pulled him to his feet and pressed a kiss to his temple. “No great loss,” he said. “It isn’t as though there were any rare books of prophecy in there.”

Crowley leaned into the embrace. “You know, you harp at me for not taking good enough care of your rare books in the cottage, but Book Girl told me that IT Guy convinced her to burn her copy of the Nice and Accurate Prophecies.”

“He _WHAT?!”_

“Angel, don’t panic-”

“We are going over there RIGHT NOW-”

“It was a long time ago! Years ago! You’re not still mad at Shadwell for burning down your shop, are you?”

Aziraphale glowered. Crowley had the sudden realization that it might not have been a good idea to mention that particular misdeed when the angel was already so worked up. He looked as though he was _thisclose_ to going full-on principality and sprouting a few pairs of wings and a couple dozen extra eyes in a fit of righteous wrath.

“On second thought, let’s take the Bentley,” Crowley said.

* * *

Their ride back from Anathema’s place was, in Aziraphale’s opinion, rather nice, especially considering the solemn and unfortunate occasion that had necessitated the trip in the first place. But he couldn’t quite put his finger on what was different. He noticed that he could enjoy the scenery in a different way than he usually could. And he felt more relaxed than he often did when driving with Crowley.

It _did_ seem like things were taking longer than they usually did. Typically, they made the trip from Tadfield to Devil’s Dyke in around an hour and a half (although a human on the same route would likely have taken much longer to get there and back). They had gone relatively often for a number of years, so Aziraphale had a good sense for how long it ought to take. And yet, they’d been in the car twenty minutes and it seemed they were hardly past the airbase.

“I say, dear boy, this seems to be taking longer than usual,” Aziraphale commented. “So is this what traffic is, then? I’m forever hearing humans go on and on about traffic.”

“Traffic? In Tadfield?” Crowley asked incredulously. “This is a country lane, angel. D’you see another car out here?”

“At this rate, we’re going to miss _Father Brown_ ,” Aziraphale complained. “It’s never taken us this long to get home before.”

“Well, yeah,” Crowley said. “’s ‘cause I’m going the speed limit.”

Aziraphale tore his gaze from the road to stare at his partner. “The speed limit? Whatever for, my dear?”

“Well,” Crowley shifted uncomfortably in the driver’s seat and had the gall to signal a turn. “You’re always complaining about my driving.”

“Naturally, but it’s never made a speck of difference in the way you drive before,” Aziraphale said.

“I can speed up if you prefer,” Crowley said. “Just say the word-”

“Enough, Crowley!” Aziraphale said. “You’ve been acting oddly for the past week. What’s gotten into you?”

Crowley stole a look at Aziraphale. The demon looked somewhat sheepish, which, for a demon, was saying something. He took a deep breath and seemed to steel himself. “That nightmare I had the other day did a number on me,” he said. Aziraphale waited for him to keep going. “I dreamt I didn’t love you.”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale said.

“It was horrible, angel!” Crowley said. “I was _horrid!_ Horrid to _you_! I insulted you, I called you stupid, I left for Alpha Centauri without even saying goodbye...” He trailed off.

“That sounds quite upsetting,” Aziraphale said. He put his hand over Crowley’s on the gearshift.

The contact seemed to encourage Crowley to continue. “And you didn’t have your bookshop,” he said, gaining steam. “I didn’t like living here on Earth, couldn’t wait to skip town. We kept playing checkers and that was important for some reason. That doesn't sound so bad now that I say it, but it was as though, I don't know, like I didn't even _respect_ you when we were playing checkers. And I flirted with people in front of you. Not just people, they were humans! Human women!”

Aziraphale laughed. Crowley glared at him. “I’m sorry, dearest, I’m just trying to imagine that,” Aziraphale said. "The very idea! It's laughable."

“It’s not funny, angel!”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale said. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have made light of something that bothered you so much. But, dear, it wasn’t _real._ You didn’t do any of that. You wouldn’t. It’s not in your nature.” Crowley didn’t say anything, but he continued to look miserable. Aziraphale decide to take a shot in the dark. “So that’s why you’ve been going out of your way to be nice to me this past week?” Aziraphale asked. “Because you felt guilty for how you spoke to me in your nightmare?”

“No,” Crowley said. “Because I don’t want to have the nightmare again.” Aziraphale waited for him to gather his thoughts. Crowley had gotten much better at expressing how he felt in the last few years, although it still didn’t come easily to him. (Aziraphale had gotten better at listening, too.) “I don’t know if I buy that dreams are a manifestation of the subconscious, but… to have a dream like that, there must be some level on which I’m afraid that I don’t tell you often enough. You know. How I feel. How much you mean to me.” He took Aziraphale’s hand. “Well. It’s not just that I’m afraid I don’t say it enough. I know that I don’t. I know how much it means to you to have things put into words.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “You don’t have to say anything. I know how you feel about me. I can sense it the same way you can see in the dark.”

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t have to,” Crowley said, still sounding miserable.

“Even if I were a human, I couldn’t miss it, dear,” Aziraphale said. “You show me how much you cherish me every day. You express it very clearly. And I know that some words will never feel right to you. You don’t need to carry boxes of manuscripts or change how you drive or use words you don’t like for me to know how you feel about me.”

“Yes, but-”

“No, dear,” Aziraphale said. “It’s important to me that you understand what I’m trying to say. You needn’t change. I like you precisely as you are.”

Crowley took a moment to let that sink in. “I do understand,” he said.

“Good.”

“But even so, I’d like to say it out loud anyway,” Crowley said. “If you want to hear it.”

Aziraphale turned to look at him, uncharacteristically speechless. He hadn’t realized how correct Crowley was about how much it meant to have things put into words until he’d said so. Aziraphale knew that for Crowley, the word ‘love’ was firmly the intellectual property of Upstairs, and Heaven would only ever be a source of trauma and harm. So he understood full well why Crowley didn’t want to use that word. Aziraphale understood, and he was more than happy to be told in a myriad of other ways instead. He never doubted how Crowley felt about him, despite the obvious not having been stated.

But Aziraphale was a creature of language, and all things being equal, he liked to have things put into words. “I do,” Aziraphale said. “Want to hear it, that is.”

“I love you, Aziraphale.”

“I love you too, Crowley.” He squeezed Crowley’s hand. “Now, can we put this whole nightmare business to rest? I don’t want you running yourself ragged trying to, I don’t know… prove your undying devotion to me. You know, I think you may have lost some weight worrying yourself sick about all this, and you haven’t any to spare. Let's just go back to business as usual, shall we?”

“All right,” Crowley said agreeably. “But really. Thanks. For waking me up the other night. It was bad.”

“You’re welcome,” Aziraphale said, privately thinking that if he never had to hear about this nightmare again, it would suit him perfectly well.

“Now then,” Crowley said. “You still want to catch your program?”

There was a dangerous glint in the demon’s eye. “Well, yes, but it starts in less than half an hour,” Aziraphale said. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

Crowley chuckled darkly. The Bentley’s engine revved. “Buckle up, sweetheart,” he said. “I have a feeling you’re not going to like this.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, a note of warning in his voice. “Are you going to floor it? Please tell me you’re not about to floor it.”

“I’ve always wanted to see if the Bentley could break the sound barrier,” Crowley said conversationally. He floored it.

Twenty-eight nerve-wracking minutes and several near collisions later, a speed demon and an exceedingly long-suffering angel made it back to their cottage just in time to snuggle up on the couch for _Father Brown._

**Author's Note:**

> so y'all I've read a lot of Good Omens fanfic, and some of it has just seeped so deeply into my mind that I might as well just credit the authors. Crowley going to therapy and also refusing to use the word 'love' comes from ['Demonology and the Tri-Phasic Model of Trauma: An Integrative Approach' by Nmn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20177950/chapters/47807593)
> 
> This is my first time posting fic in the GO fandom! (So sorry it has to be under these circumstances.) For the record, I started writing it before anything about the script's widespread availability had been said publicly, and just kind of wanted to to play with the ideas in the grand tradition of transformative works. Hope y'all enjoy.
> 
> find me on Tumblr for [nonstop omensblogging](https://fairkid-forever.tumblr.com)


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